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The Politiks of Crayons

Blue could've cast a sky
Yet it refused to draw lines
Apart from numbers
It blinds the hand

Red draws little rounds 
too many to count it 
looked more of a copper mound
it lacked

Tiny circles cramming each one
built a mountain work of art
and fertile ground
Only there is no green
left in the box
It must have been all used up

Purple proposed a fix
to break all sticks in 
muted of ash 

This angered white.